


The greatest thing you'll ever learn

by orphan_account



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Feels, Gen, M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, Multi, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Moulin Rouge, the best nightclub in the sinful town of Beacon Hills, and the first open to werewolves. A dance hall too, and a brothel. Ruled over by Peter Hale, a mysterious Hades in the kingdom of nighttime pleasures where the rich and powerful come to play with the young and beautiful creautures of the underworld.  The most beautiful of all these….was the woman I loved. Lydia. A courtesan, she sold her love to men and monsters alike. They called her ‘The Poisoned Blossom’ and she was the star...of the Moulin Rouge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Write our story

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of things are switched around here, and you'll probably notice them as we progress through the story. Sorry for awful writing, but I had to get this out, it was braining me.
> 
> First few things, all characters are over eighteen when this is meant to be happening.   
> The main ship is NOT sterek. Oh dear. But hey...  
> And yeah...haters gonna hate. Love YOU.

Almost a year later, Stiles Stilinski pulls himself up to the desk, opens a new document on his laptop, and begins to type.

**The Moulin Rouge, by Stiles Stilinski.**

**The Moulin Rouge, the best nightclub in the sinful town of Beacon Hills, and the first open to werewolves. A dance hall too, and a brothel. Ruled over by Peter Hale, a mysterious Hades in the kingdom of nighttime pleasures where the rich and powerful come to play with the young and beautiful creautures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these….was the woman I loved. Lydia. A courtesan, she sold her love to men and monsters alike. They called her ‘The Poisoned Blossom’ and she was the star...of the Moulin Rouge.**

For a moment, he has to stop, to compose himself, to bring himself to actually put into words the next confession. Writing it down makes it real. It always has for him. It’s why he became a poet in the first place.

**The woman I loved is dead.**

Now it’s on paper, there’s no escaping it. It’s staring him in the face, and the sob that breaks through him is expected. But he has to keep writing. She would have wanted-  
 **I first came to California one year ago. It was 2012, the summer of Love. I knew nothing about Lydia, Peter Hale, or the Moulin Rouge. The world had been swept up with a fresh wave of Bohemian revolution, marked with a modern need to rebel from ideals. Not to achieve, not to strive, or struggle, but to live in pleasure, and sin, and I had travelled from Washington to be a part of it. I saw Beacon Hills. It wasn’t like my father described it -**

His mind flicks back to an image of his Pops, stood in front of the flashing lights of the duty car. “A town of sin! A veritable Sodom and Gomorrah.”

**-But the centre of the rebellious bohemian world. Rock stars, Photographers, Novelists...They were known as ‘Children of the Revolution.’ Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence, I had come to write about the supernatural, truth, beauty, freedom…**

Stiles doesn’t stop the small smile that grows as he writes the next part.

**And that which I believed in, above all things. Love.**


	2. Children of the Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles moves into a new home, makes friends, and gets a job in the first six hours of being in a new town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just quick note, ALL the bold text is Stiles now narrating his past. SUPER SORRY if it's confusing.

**There was only one problem, I’d never been in love.**

It was lucky for Stiles, he’d only been in Beacon Hills for three hours, wandering around and taking in the scenery, when he was taken pity on, and scooped up by a dark haired woman with a neat up-do, and seriously long limbs. She ran rooms, apparently, for aspiring artists, minimum rate, and she’d love to add another gangly pathetic nerd to the menagerie. He took offence to that, but only slightly, because hello, cheap rooms. With people like him. He’d moved his stuff in, post haste, thankfully handed over the money to Allison (apparently her name), who left him a bowl of fruit, and told him to enjoy. He’d sat in front of his laptop, looking at the open word document. Love...  
 **Luckily, right at that moment, an angry werewolf fell through my roof. Or...unluckily.**

The wolfed out man dropped to a crouch, digging his claws deep into the floor. And Stiles was frozen, eyes wide on the blue glowing eyes. Just his luck. Just his luck. Jesus christ. Frigging…  
 **He was quickly joined by another beta dressed as a nun.**  
Literally a second later another tan skinned werewolf broke through his door, grinning a little widely for someone who might also get mauled. “Derek! Dude. Calm.” And like that, the wolfed-out broody-looking guy was standing, and brushing off his...costume? He was wearing dark jeans, and a tight white flouncy shirt, like a victorian poet or something, or the star of a holiday romance novel. He wasn’t as wolfed out any more, and without a swollen hairy brow, he was kind of obviously stage material. Beautiful. Why was everyone he’d seen here so beautiful?

“Hey! Sorry, how are you? I’m Scott McCall, this is Derek.” The obviously younger male in the nun outfit spoke at ninety miles per hour, and left even Stiles blinking.  
“What?”  
“I’m super sorry about all this.” Scott was by the large man’s side in moments, a hand on his shoulder, obviously trying to calm him further. Stiles took a conscious step back. “We’ve just been upstairs rehearsing a play.”

**A play, something very modern, called Spectacular Spectacular.**

“It’s set in Switzerland.” Scott told him eagerly. 

**Unfortunately, the angry lycanthrope had issues. They were linked with a deep and horrible past, apparently.**

“I guess everyone has issues, huh?” Scott said, overly cheerful, and oblivious to how Derek was fuming beside him. Luckily, three heads poked through the ceiling. Two males, and one female. The boys were paler than the rest of their entourage, one with mousey brown curls, and bright blue eyes, and one with dark hair, and a cold look, Stiles noted. The other was a dark haired girl, younger than the rest. She spoke. “Is he alright?”

Derek, rolling his eyes, merely growled, and stalked out. Stiles watched with a perplexed expression, and wondered if life in Beacon Hills was always like this, or whether he’d just walked into a drug fueled wonderland.

“Fantastic, now the rage wolf is gone.” Said the darker haired man, slamming his fist against the already crumbling ceiling. “The scene won’t be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow.” He turned to look at the other man for support.  
Shy, the other shrugged, and ducked his head, knuckles slightly white on the peice of board he was clinging to. “He’s right, Scott. I still have to finish the music.”  
“So, find someone to read the part, Matt.” Scott said, as if the whole world should have thought of it half an hour ago.  
“Where in hell are we going to find someone to play the part of a young sensitive poet/goatherder?” Matt was obviously growing more irate by the second, and close to a diva strop.  
And suddenly, all eyes were on Stiles. Who had managed at this point to back himself against the wall.  
 **Before I knew it, I was upstairs, standing in for the Actor Derek Hale, and introduced to Isaac “Baby Blues” Lahey, the musician, Cora “Steel tongue” Hale, the actress who’d starred in Rom and Jules in New York. And Matt Daehler, the writer of Spectacular Spectacular.**  
They were all crowded around the piano, Isaac, who was more skilled with his fingers than Stiles could really bear to think about, plinking out a melody.  
Scott was singing. Unfortunately. “THE HILLS ANIMATE WITH THE EUPHONIOUS SYMPHONIES OF DESCANT-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA….”

“STOP. Stop. Stop stop stop.” Matt was shaking his head, and Stiles leant against the Piano, watching with interest. “Stop with that insufferable droning. You’re drowning out my words. Couldn’t you stick to a little decorative piano?” Isaac was glaring at the keys, looking fit to kill. It was then that Stiles realised their company was about sixty percent werewolf. 

There seemed to be artistic differences over Matt’s lyrics, and Isaac’s music. 

“Why the fuck would a nun say that about a hill?” Cora asked, glaring at Matt.  
Isaac tried to placate them both. “What if he sings ‘The hills are vital, intoning the descant’?”  
“No, no. The hills quake and shake-”  
“No. No. No. No. The hills-”

“The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies?” Derek asked from the doorway, making everyone jump out of their skin.  
“KNOCK. And no. The hills-”  
“The hills-”  
“Are chanting an eternal mantra?”  
“Frank is living in my foot?” They were arguing now, loudly, and Stiles had to raise his voice beyond all of them to get heard, irritation spiking high because he HAD it. Suddenly it hit him, and he SUNG it. “THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC.”  
Silence. All eyes were on him, wide and mouths opened, mid argument. Derek slowly nodded. “The hills are alive with the sound of music. I love it.” 

The moment of near rejection passed, and they all nodded in agreement. Cora started out with Isaac’s piano backing. “THE HILLS ARE ALIVE-”  
“WITH THE SOUND” Scott continued.  
“OF MUSIC.” Isaac sung sweetly out, and actually cracked a grin, the first that Stiles had seen from him. He wanted to see more, because it’s the best thing he’d seen all day, and he’d seen a lot.  
“It fits perfectly.” Isaac told him, happily.  
Emboldened, Stiles stepped forward, and let the next line in his head flow free. “WITH SONGS THEY HAVE SUNG FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.”  
There’s a mutual gasp, and then a pleased chattering from everyone. “That’s so cool! You and Matt should write the show together!” Scott was grinning, bouncing happily. Rather like a puppy. Stiles liked puppies.  
Matt, who’s been silent the entire time, lets his diva wrack up another notch. “I beg your fucking pardon?”  
 **But Scott’s suggestion that Matt and I write the show together was not what Matt wanted to hear.**  
“Fuck you losers.” Was all that was heard, before the door slammed shut, and the writer was gone. Scott passed round glasses of something green and sweet smelling. “Here’s to your first job in Beacon Hills.”  
Isaac had sidled out from behind the piano, looking concerned now. Despite his slender clever fingers, he was a muscular well built tall man. “Scott, the Alpha will never agree.” And then turned to Stiles. “No offense, have you ever written anything like this before?”  
He had to shake his head.

It was Derek, though, who pushed him up against the piano, and inhaled deeply, as if that would help him work out if he was genuine. “The boy has talent. I like him.” Stiles wished their crotches weren’t pressed so close together. The wolf realised a second later, and backed up. “Nothing funny. I just like talent.”  
Relieved to be freed, the newly employed writer looked around at them, as they all seemed to circle closer. “The hills are alive with the sound of music. See, Baby Blues? With Stiles we can write the truly bohemian revolutionary show we’ve always dreamt of.”  
“But how will we convince Hale Senior?”  
 **But Scott had a plan.**  
“Lydia!” Scott was looking overly proud of himself.  
 **They would dress me in the Pianist’s best suit and pass me off as a famous New York writer. Once Lydia heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded, and insist to Hale Senior that I write Spectacular, Spectacular. The only problem was that I still heard my father’s voice in my head.**  
“You’ll end up wasting your time at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer.” He’d said it without even thinking, as it had been running through his head non stop since he’d been hired.  
“What?” Scott and the rest were staring, from where they’d been pouring out large green glass fulls of Absinthe.  
He’d started to panic. “No. I can’t write the show for the Moulin Rouge!” And started towards the door, where Derek was nursing his drink.  
“Why not?” Scott followed him, frowning worriedly.  
“I don’t even know if I am a true bohemian revolutionary!” He blurted, brows creased, hands gesticulating wildly.  
The Actor and the Pianist exchanged looks.  
“Do you believe in beauty?” Scott asked carefully.  
“Yes.” He answered, shakily.  
“Freedom?” Derek growled from the door.  
“Yeah, of course.”  
“Truth?” Isaac pressed.  
“Yes.”  
Cora bent over the piano, fixing him with what seemed like the Official Hale Glare. “Love?”

And then his mouth was running away from before he could really stop it. “Love? Love. Above all things, I believe in love. Love is like oxygen, love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!”

They all grinned at him, and it seemed then that it was done, settled, finished. He was one of them. Accepted in less than five hours in a new place. The rush was brilliant.  
 **But it was nothing like I would feel, not in the weeks and months to come.**

“See! You can’t fool us! You’re the voice of the revolution.” Cora’s arm slid round his waist, and a glass was pressed into his hand. They stepped out onto the balcony, to stare out at the city, the bright lights, and the spinning wheel of the Moulin Rouge.  
“Drink to the writer of the world’s first bohemian revolutionary show!”  
 **It was the perfect plan. I was to audition for Lydia and I would taste my first glass of…Absinthe.**  
Stiles took a deep gulp, and his world exploded into blurred pleasure.


	3. Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets Lydia, The Poison Bloom.

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC.

**We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Lydia.**

There were queues all the way into the club, and even in Isaac’s best penguin black and whites Stiles felt underdressed. The people around him were the tanned muscled stern faced rich and powerful, those who could afford to get in. Luckily for him, he wouldn’t have to pay the hefty fee, because Scott and Derek were friendly with the bouncer, Vernon Boyd.  
When he got close enough to hear the music inside, and actually see Boyd, he had another tremor of nerves. He couldn’t do this. Luckily Isaac and Derek and Scott and Cora were right behind him to catch him and shove him in the direction.  
“So...you’re Vernon…?” Stiles approached the large dark skinned man in his dark suit. Who just stared for a second.  
“Boyd. You’re the writer?”  
“That would be me. Here and ready to impress. As it were…”  
“Figures. You could fit in as one of the Lords, if you were a little older…Pale and skinny enough.”  
Stiles sucked in his cheeks, and tried not to be insulted again, before he was pushed through into the heady atmosphere inside. It was the land of the night, that was for certain. Rich colours, sequins, beads, all that sparkled and shimmered, and shone. It was an oval room, with a main stage at one end for the band, and boothed curtained seats all around the central floor, in the centre of which was a raised platform. So far, all that could be heard was the low thrum of excitement around the room, and the deep beat of the music. The floor was empty, but for the men crowding into their seats. Scott pulled the overawed Stiles into a front booth, to the left of the dance floor. They sat, just in time, it seemed, as the music built. And then out stepped Peter Hale, exquisitely dressed in his ringleaders outfit, and smirking darkly. He spread his arms. And the silence fell. And then the girls came in.  
 **Peter Hale, and his infamous troop. They called them his Diamond Demons.**  
They were dressed in all different noxious shades, bright reds and greens and oranges and violets, halloween colours, colours of danger. All of them were made up with dark eyes, and red lips, and full heavy ripe cleavage. As they took their places for the first dance, they licked their lips, and blew kisses to the men hooting and catcalling. Stiles was watching, enthralled. He saw men there too, stripped to the waist, and just as tightly corsetted, just as made up. Just as provocative as the courtesans that surrounded them.  
Hale Senior tapped his conductors board, and stuck up the first dance sign. Old favourite, Scott whispered. The CanCan.  
“If life’s an awful bore,  
and livings just a chore that we do,  
‘cause death’s not much fun.  
I have just the antidote,  
and though I musn’t gloat,  
at the Moulin Rouge you’ll have FUN.”

Men were getting up to dance with the performers, who had finished the set piece, and were pulling men towards them. Derek was pulled up by a chesty blonde, with a ferocious snarl, in a deep purple bodice and black and purple rah rah skirt that when pulled up showed her suspender belt and see through knickers. Stiles just watched with an open mouth, and more than half mast erection, leaning against the wall dividing their booth, and the next.  
“Outside it may be raining, BUT IN HERE IT’S ENTERTAINING!” Peter yelled over the raucous enjoyment.  
Scott grabbed his arm and whispered low. “Mission one successful. We’ve evaded the Alpha, for now.”  
Suddenly the lights blinked out. The whole room descended into silence, for one, two, three, four, five counts, and then a spotlight flicked on, audibly. Glitter began to float through the air, and in a haze of shimmering smoke and flecks light, she was lowered down on a trapeze. Her hair was curled over one shoulder, black top hat sat at a jaunty angle. Smokey painted green eyes smouldered out towards her audience, and red lips pouted delicately. Her outfit was pure lilac glitter, in leotard form, with long white gloves.  
Scott whispered in awe. “It’s her. The Poison Blossom.”  
Lydia opened her perfect red lips, and began to sing.  
“THE FRENCH ARE GLAD TO DIE FOR LOVE,  
THEY DELIGHT IN FIGHTING DUELS...” Her voice was sweet and low and sultry. Stiles couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  
 **But someone else was to meet Lydia that night. The Duke.**  
Stiles leant back against the wall again, unable to know that in the exact same position on the other side of the ornate wall was Duke Whittemore. Rich, and handsome, and obnoxious, and cruel, and here to find his own sparkling jewel. And as Hale Senior’s investor, he would get it.  
“BUT I PREFER, A MAN WHO LIVES,  
AND GIVES EXPENSIVE-”  
Lydia was slowly lowered to mid-height in the air, happily trailing her expensively shoed feet through the sea of hands. In the silence where the music paused, she whispered.  
“Jewels.”  
Then the brassy music set in, and she started to swing, throwing back her head so her hair flowed, and getting into the song.  
“A KISS ON THE HAND MAY BE QUITE CONTINENTAL,  
BUT DIAMONDS ARE A GIRLS BEST FRIEND.  
A KISS MAY BE GRAND BUT IT-”  
She stepped off the swing into the podium in the centre, shaking her hips, and strutting forward into the crowd, which parted for her.  
“WON’T PAY THE RENTAL ON YOUR HUMBLE FLAT,  
OR HELP YOU FEED YOUR PUSSY-” She purred, pouting suggestively, and wiggling, “CAT.”  
All the Demon Dancers surrounded her, starting a new routine, as she clicked forwards with swaying hips, all singing.  
“MEN GROW COLD  
AS GIRLS GROW OLD,  
AND WE ALL LOSE OUR CHARMS IN THE END.”  
A male dancer with a lithe body, and tan skin, and a great smile shimmied past Stiles’ seat, in green and black striped tights, and a codpiece only. Isaac stared, but Stiles had eyes only for Lydia.  
“SQUARE CUT OR PEAR SHAPED,  
THESE ROCKS DON’T LOSE THEIR SHAPE,  
DIAMONDS ARE A GIRLS BEST FRIEND.”

Peter had stopped beside the Duke’s table, standing to respectful attention, and bowing low. Whittemore was having none of it, wrinkling his nose at the display.  
“When am I gonna meet this girl?”  
Peter put on his best charming smile, and smoothest idiot-proof voice. “After her number, I’ve arranged a special meeting. Just you and Mademoiselle Lydia. Totally alone.”  
“TIFFANY’s!” Lydia squealed, twirling with a male dancer.  
Scott elbowed Stiles, trying to draw his attention. “After her number, I’ve arranged a special meeting. Just you and Mademoiselle Lydia. Totally alone!”  
Stiles found his mouth dry at the thought, head spinning. He would have to audition in front of an angel?  
“CARTIER!” She sang out, half moaning, causing a reaction from the audience, and another formation change from the dancers.  
“Alone?” He asked, breathless.  
On the opposite side, Jackson had asked the same question. And without knowing, in unison, Peter and Scott replied.  
“Yes. Totally alone.”  
Lydia had climbed onto the pedestal again, where she’d got a customer lying under one spiked heel. “COS WE ARE LIVING IN A MATERIAL WORLD, AND I AM A MATERIAL GIRL.”  
She released him, blowing a kiss, and squealing, again, building excitement in the room. Peter was walking towards her, and she pulled him up, screeching as if in ecstasy. “BLACK STAR! ROSCOR! TALK TO ME, PETER HALE, TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT!”  
They pose, his hands curled round her, as she pulls surprised innocent little faces.  
“THERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN A GIRL NEEDS A LAWYER.  
BUT DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND.”  
Peter, smirked, and spun her, smacking her arse as she shimmyed away, and she OOHed, louder, every male in the room drawing in a breath.  
Stiles went to stand as the dancing girl’s shrouded the two with their skirts, making them invisible. Scott pushed him back though, moving instead. “I’ll go sully things along a bit.”  
As Scott stepped past the booth, he knocked water over the lap of none other than Duke Jackson Whittemore. “Ooh!” He said, starting to dab at his lap ineffectually with his hankie.

Meanwhile, Lydia was doing her quick change into the pink bouffant gown with the plumage skirt, leaving her bare slender legs on show, and her lovely shoulders. Peter stood, encouraging.  
“Is the Duke here?” She asked, filled with interest for the prospective investor.  
“Lyds, darling, would Daddy let you down?” Peter crooned, and Lydia smirked, tightening the corset. Peter turned and gasped, irritated when he saw Scott having spilled something down the Duke’s front.  
“Where is he?” She peeked over his shoulder, shimmying into the skirt. Peter growls. “The one Scott is shaking a hanky at.” He turned away.  
Scott had raced back to Stiles, trying to pull the handkerchief out of his pocket without much luck.. “Need to borrow this.”  
“Are you sure?” She frowned at the skinny moled boy with the brown eyes. Hardly duke material.  
Peter danced round her to look. “Let me peek, sweetpea.”  
Scott was back to dabbing at Jackson’s lap, apologising profusely. “Sorry. So sorry. Very sorry.” The Duke just glared at him, disgusted.  
“That’s the one, buttercup.” Peter sighed, handing her the last piece, a diamond heart that settled over her crotch. “Let’s hope that little lunatic doesn’t frighten him off.”

Scott tosses the hanky in Jackson’s face. “Clean yourself off, you dick.” And that’s when Jackson pulled back his tuxedo jacket to show the gun at his hip, with the familiar purple wolfsbane symbol imprinted on the handle. The actor backed quickly away.

“Will he invest?” Lydia asked, stepping out of the ring of skirts to dance against Peter, lowering herself against his crotch.  
Peter strokes her neck, fingers lingering at her throat. “After a night with you, pumpkin, how could he refuse?” She gets up, to dance on his arm, twirling, and swaying her hips. “What’s his type, wilting flower? Bright and bubbly? Or smouldering temptress?” Her hand smoothes over his chest as she stares deep into his eyes.  
“I’d say smouldering temptress. Give it everything tonight, chickpea. We’re all counting on you.”  
One of the dancers, the blonde in purple, throws her leg up straight into the air and holds it by her ear, giving everyone around her a view, with a shout of “OLE!”.  
“Remember…” Peter whispers in her ear, stroking her hip, as they sway in a circle, her back against his chest, her arms up around his neck. “A real show, in a real theatre. And you’ll be…”

Lydia’s expression becomes a dark cloud of emotion, the facade broken for a moment, eyes troubled. “A real actress. At last.”  
Something snaps her out of it, and she steps back into the performance, calling loudly. “ARIIIIBBAA.”  
And starts to stalk down the steps towards her target.  
“DIAMONDS.”  
Stiles watches her. She looked straight at him. Holy crap.  
“ARE A…”  
She headed towards him. Oh god, oh god. He fumbled with his drink, putting it down quickly.  
“GIRLS….BEST…”  
And she had gotten to like, a metre away, and holy crap, she was going to…  
“FRIIIEENNNDD…”  
Her diamond heart covered crotch was wiggling in his face. He looked up, to see her smiling down at him, predatory, and sexual.  
“I believe you were expecting me…”  
And she took his hand, and lead him out onto the floor.  
 **I danced with Satine, trying to keep up with every step, follow her every move, but I was entranced. Star struck. And who wouldn’t be. At five foot three, slender, and strawberry blonde, with green eyes, and the most amazing smile I’d ever seen, she was...perfect.**

Lydia lowered herself round his knees, rubbing back against Stiles’ as they danced.  
“That went well..” Murmured Isaac, wide eyed.  
Cora nodded. “Incredible.  
“He has a gift with women.” Derek agreed, still staring broodily at the blonde bombshell. Scott just grinned.  
“I told you all. He’s a genius. He’ll hit her with his most modern poetry.”

Stiles was flustered, but barely managing to keep up, his blood not all staying in his brain. It was being directed downstairs. Lydia turned to face him, arms around his neck.  
“So wonderful of you to take an interest in our little show.” Her voice was a pur.  
“It..uh, sounds awesome. I’d be happy to get involved.” He stuttered, offering a smile.  
Her expression brightened. “Really?”  
He blushed. “Assuming you like what I do, of course.”  
Lydia, a courtesan, has no shame when it comes to talking about sex. Or what she thinks is sex being discussed. “I’m sure I will.”  
“Scott-Scott said we might be able to do it in private.”  
“He did, did he?”  
He swallowed, nervous. “Yeah, you know- the private, uh..poetry reading.”  
She licked her lips, and turned to rub her pert bottom over his crotch, as dancers swirled around them. “Ohh. Mmm. I love a little poetry after supper.”  
She danced away from him, climbing the pedestal back to her trapeze, and waving at him. The song gets back to the lyrics section, all the crowd joining in her joyful song.  
“DIAMONDS,  
DIAMONDS,  
SQUARE CUT, OR PEAR SHAPED,  
THESE ROCKS DON’T LOSE THEIR SHAPE  
DIAMONDS ARE A…”  
She took a deep breath to finish the song, and suddenly paled. She could barely breathe, sweat beading delicately on her brow, but she pushed out a few more words, weaker, as her hands trembled on the ropes.  
“GIRL’S ...BEST….”  
And like that, she tipped back, and fell, unconcious, through the air.  
There was a collective gasp, and a yell of “NO!” from Peter, standing horrified on the stage. Boyd stood there, solemn, having caught her, holding her limp form while her pale face made her look half dead.  
The whole room was silent.  
 **I should have known then.**


	4. Behind the velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet some more of the members of the lovely Moulin Rouge, and

Boyd carried her out of the open hall, in the silence. Peter Hale, trying to bring back the mood, started to applaud, and slowly, everyone else joined in, moving from slight unease to unadulterated praise, whooping, and cheering.   
“Oh!” Hale Senior called out, fixing back his devilish smirk. “Look! You’ve frightened her away!”

Backstage, Boyd carried her ,shallowly breathing, from towards the chaise longue in the centre of the green room. The blonde who’d been gossiping with another dancer and giggling, strode forward to lean over her, and against Boyd, curling an arm around his waist.   
“Don’t know if the Duke’s going to get his money’s worth tonight.” Her tone was cruel and clipped and smug. Boyd pushed her away, not really angrily. “Don’t be unkind, Erica.” She rolled her eyes, and clicked off back towards the dance floor.  
Lydia was breathing, but laboured. Boyd signaled to someone passing, and soon, Deaton was leant over her, fingers pressing gently against her pulse point. She felt too hot, burning up. He slipped her liquid from a little white bottle, and soon enough, her eyes blinked open, and she coughed, pale, and sweat soaked. Deaton offered her a smile, as she shifted to sit, skin sticky against the red velvet.   
“These silly costumes…” Lydia tried, more for herself than to reassure him.   
“Just a fainting spell, nothing more.” He lied calmly, handing her a handkerchief.   
Manager Finstock was swatting girls back out into the show, yelling encouragements. “All right, you girls. Get out there and MAKE EM THIRSTY.” He stopped to look at Lydia and Deaton. “Problems?” Deaton met his gaze cooly.   
“Nothing for you to worry about.”   
Finstock just lifted his hands in defeat. “Well,don’t just stand around then. We’ve a show to put on.”   
Deaton held up a handkerchief as Lydia coughed again, and rubbed her back. When he drew the cotton away, it was splattered with red.

*  
Jackson turned to a dark figure beside him in his booth, watching the dancers with little interest. “Find Hale. The whore will be waiting for me.”

*  
Lydia coughed again as she braced herself against the vanity cabinet, sucking in her already slender waist. Finstock had a foot in the small of her back, and tugged on the corset laces like they’re his last chance of not falling to his death.   
“That twinkle toes Duke was really taken with you, huh? With a patron like that you could be the next Angelina Jolie! Big pout and all.”  
She smiles back at him, looking at the pictures pinned to the walls around her dressing room, movie stars, and actresses, all of them. “You really think I could be as popular as her?”  
He laced up the last few loops, and patted her waist, seemingly content with the tiny circumference. She could barely breath. Perfect. “Why not? You’ve got the talent. Hook the duke, and you’ll be on every movie poster from here to London.”  
She turned to look at the bright white bird in the cage that swung from the ceiling, trailing her fingers over the bars. “I’m going to be a real actress. I’m going to do it. Fly away from here. We’ll fly away, little bird.”  
Peter had chosen that precise moment to enter, spreading his arms in greeting. “Duckling, is everything alright?”  
“Perfect, Peter, just perfect.” She smirked, looking back into the mirror, an expression of sheer ambition on her face.   
“Thank goodness. You certainly weaved your magic with that duke on the dance floor.” He was checking his watch, happily nursing his own greedy smile. Lydia turned to face him, showing off the tight black corset, and sheer dark lace lingerie that caressed her pale curves. Pulling an armless lace dressing gown over her shoulders, she posed for him, pouting her lips, and pointing stockinged, heeled toes.   
He gasped. “My femme fatale. My smouldering temptress! How could he resist gobbling you up? Everything’s going so well!”


End file.
